


The Blitz

by firstnameagent



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: (Temporary Suicide), Blood, Fake AH Crew, GTA, Gen, Immortal Fake AH Crew, POV Second Person, Suicide mention, Temporary Death, War, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-08
Updated: 2015-07-08
Packaged: 2018-04-08 06:35:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4294452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firstnameagent/pseuds/firstnameagent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You start out as a kid barely out of adolescence living in London during a war much bigger than you. You end up a king (or a God) of Los Santos, with five other people who also stubbornly refuse to stay dead. </p>
<p>This is just point A to point B.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Blitz

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everybody! So this is kind of the first time I've written proper fanfic (and is it even proper if I accidentally never used any names oops). But anyway, thanks for reading if you are!
> 
> Also the second person POV is just a personal stylistic choice. I like writing in it because it feels personal or something.
> 
> (I'm also on tumblr at firstnameagent!)

**London, 1940**

You avoided the war as long as you could, but now it's coming to you.

It comes to the home of every Londoner, actually, in the form of fat bombs laid heavy on the city's rooftops. You hear them coming, hear the sirens wail and the planes above, but it's much too late to go to a shelter. Your parents tell you to get to the basement, to run, and you start--but then the new sounds begin. Splintering wood, neighbors screaming. The earth rocks underneath you, or maybe that's just your house, and then the ceiling caves in and the world disappears.

And then it comes back.

You push aside a heavy beam and stand, shaking, feeling the blood dried in your hair but no cut underneath it. Your clothes are torn and your house is gone and your parents.... But you're alive, somehow, without a scratch on you.

Your nose is a bit crooked, though.

 

**London, 1950**

It takes you that long to admit you're not aging.

You're just aging _really well_ , you assure yourself, and it's not like pictures are exactly abundant, so who are you to know? You never kept many friends from back then; none of them quite knew what to say to someone whose life had very literally collapsed. 

But you wake up and look yourself in the mirror ten years to the day since your miracle and you can't deny it anymore. 

"Right," you mutter. "So I'm bloody immortal."

You probably ought to be a bit more excited about that.

 

**New York, 1982**

Eventually people do start to notice, even if it's just in a cursory way. You've saved up more than enough money to get out of London--forty years with the body and mind of a twenty-two year old will do that to you--so you do. You get to New York by not stritcly legal terms, because you've heard that's where you're meant to go when you come to America.

In all this time you haven't committed a crime yet, which surprises you. Thought that'd be the first thing you'd do once you realized you were invinceable. But mostly you're just concerned about how some judge will interpret "life sentence".

But anyway, you rent out a hotel room and set up shop there, just long enough to get your bearings. Buy a map of America and chart out where you're going to drive, because you never did pay much attention to what was going on over here. They just had a war, too, it sounds like. You wonder if anyone involved found out the hard way the same thing that you did. 

Two weeks later, you find yourself standing above the Hudson at night. Just to test it. Just to see.

You wake up half a mile down river and walk, shivering, back home.

 

**Somewhere, Sometime**

The internet is growing old to most but still new to you. You sit down at a computer in the public library and read, and read and read.

Fifty-seven consecutive nights. One million homes destroyed. Forty thousand civilians killed. 

( _40,001_ , you think.)

The Blitz looks so crips and clean laid out in pure black text on a stark white screen: number noun verb, number noun verb. But as you read you can hear the screaming behind the words and smell the smoke and flames beneath the page. 

You stay and read until they kick you out, and then you get in your car and drive. 

 

**Los Santos, 2012**

At least beer never changes.

You walk in (an immortal guy walks into a bar...) and gesture for a drink. The guy cards you, because of course he does, and you scowl but hand him your updated fake anyway. He goes to make your drink for you. 

You glance over at whoever you're seated next to today. Young-looking guy with one hell of a mustache, tattoos from shoulder to wrist. Impressive amount of ink on somebody with such a baby face. When he pulls out his ID, you glance over at it. 1980.

Oh, there's no fucking way.

You squint your eyes at him. He is not, cannot be, 32 years old. You've gotten pretty goddamn good at knowing what 32 years old doesn't look like. You glance down at his tattoos again; they look ten years faded. You glance up at his face. You do the math.

They had another war on recently, didn't they?

A wicked grin starts to spread on your face. You down the drink the bartender hands you in one go and--because, really, what the hell do you have to lose--turn to the tattooed stranger.

"You're not gonna be able to use your original for long, y'know."

He turns to you and brings his eyebrows together. "Fuck're you talking about?"

You shrug. "Just sayin'," and without realizing it, your English accent starts to crawl back into your voice. "Gonna have to get an update in the next couple years. Pain in the ass, that is. I know a guy though. A girl, actually. Reliable and all that."

"Listen buddy," he sighs, "I don't know what the hell you mean."

And you don't normally show off like this (lie), but you're drunk (lie) and bored (truth) and you pull out a pocket knife.

"Whoa, whoa," the guy says, and then you stab it straight down into your palm.

"Bloody hurts," you gasp, yanking it out. "Ohh, why did I do that? Oh, come on."

The man turns completely pale as your hand gushes blood--and then paler still when you wipe it on your jeans and hold it up, healed through. He stares at you, wide-eyed but not afraid: curious, relieved. He knows. He knows you know. 

So you smile again, twirl the knife, and say, "Bet you fifty quid I can lop off the whole hand without anyone noticing."

He looks around the bar. Nobody else is looking.

He pulls out a fifty. "You're on."

(Three years later, when you rule the city and your bets come with five or six digits, you still don't forgive him for screaming and pointing as soon as you start.)


End file.
